It was the kind of slow summer dusk, dusted all in sooty lavender, that reminded Bulma of a slow exhale. The streetlights surged to life with a flicker, and the fireflies answered, glowing restlessly, and Bulma could only sigh roughly at it all.
After all, she had a hot date with Vegeta tonight...
...At the police department.
Bulma leaned forward, placing a kiss on Chi Chi's cheek before helping her friend slide into the front seat of her car. Chi Chi wasn't far along enough in her pregnancy to be big and clumsy with it, but she had shuffled dismally all the way to her car. Bulma's brows creased with worry, knowing Cheech hadn't been able to keep anything down for weeks. Her oldest friend was, clearly, miserable.
"Let me know how it goes with Vegeta," Chi Chi asked, looking up at Bulma tiredly.
Bulma nodded as she rested her hand on the open car door. "Don't worry about me. I'll talk to you soon." She shut Chi Chi's door gently, the hum of Saturday night city traffic growing around them as the restaurants and bars began to fill. "Eat something," Bulma insisted, squeezing Chi Chi's hand through the open window, which rested listlessly on the steering wheel. "Grab a box of crackers or whatever else you can manage to keep down, lay down on the couch, and watch that stupid detective show with the really hunky cop." Bulma winked, and both women sniggered. "And don't make me call my dad's med team and have them set you up with an IV at home."
Chi Chi gave her a playful glare and set the car in reverse. Bulma backed away, waving as her friend rolled down the lot and pulled up to the busy street, turn signal blinking.
Once she was out of sight, Bulma didn't linger, hustling across the parking lot to her cherry red VW bus.
The new cream seat leather was cool against her back as she slid the aged key into the ignition with emerging disbelief.
It had been months since they'd spoken. It was surreal. A whole half year of no Chi Chi. And though their old friendship had reignited with no problem, their separation weighed on Bulma. She had survived without Chi Chi this whole time. But after seeing how wretched Chi Chi felt, sick with both the secret of her pregnancy and her isolation, she didn't want to know how hard it had been on Chi Chi to endure without her. Bulma felt a pang of guilt through her chest, squeezing her throat, and she held back a sniffle. Maybe she'd been a bad friend.
Bulma had been so busy at the shop this summer that she'd hardly had any time to think about anything but the cars sitting in her garage bays, and, occasionally, Vegeta's hand skimming south under her pants on his lunch breaks. She hadn't lied to Chi Chi. The last few months, the only time she got to spend with Vegeta was under his mouth in her break room, or sprawled naked in his bed on a Sunday morning while he worked at the kitchen table. It was a bit of an epicurean life they were living out with each other, but she couldn't complain. Neither of their work schedules this summer allowed them much room for romance, or even more than a cursory chat about their lives. Even between she and Vegeta, the shop left Bulma little time for socializing.
As soon as her bus started up with its familiar, hearty old clacking, she was shifting into gear and rolling out of the parking lot towards the highway, which would take her to Central West City Police Department, where Vegeta and Raditz were...
Were what?
Had Vegeta been locked up? As unlikely as it was, she supposed Vegeta was capable of walloping someone who made a jab at his pride or something. After all, punching Yamcha in the face hadn't been very lawyer-like, and he'd just done that in her defense. She couldn't think of anything that would cause Vegeta, of all people, to become unglued; but then again, she knew so little about him. Her lips thinned, and the thought curled in her gut alongside her new regret for how things had turned out with Chi Chi.
Wait. Bulma's eyes widened, her hands tightening on the wide steering wheel. Could this be connected to Raditz and Nappa's visit? Bulma's brows crumpled with both frustration and consideration. What had Raditz and Nappa needed to speak to Vegeta about alone in the first place? What else in Vegeta's life would require secrecy besides work?
What in the hell was going on? She chewed her nails even as the bus sped down the highway at its highest register of 60 mph.
The police department loomed just off the next exit. She coasted into its parking lot, gazing up at the ominous brick structure. Parking in the back, she cranked the e-break and hit her lights, checking her phone one last time.
With her heart tripping, she unlocked the screen to glance at one last message from Raditz.
Did you bring popcorn and nachos?
She stared down at the phone with exponentially growing dislike.
What in the hell do you mean DID I BRING POPCORN AND NACHOS!?
Raditz' reply was immediate.
Cuz this is getting pretty good.
Bulma shoved her phone in her pocket before her glower could shatter the device and made her way towards the front doors of the drab two story police department, trying her hardest, her very, very hardest, not to assume the worst.
The door slowly shut behind her as her mouth hung open.
"What in the sam hill," she grit, staring at the chaos before her.
Milling about in the front lobby were a dozen party-hat-topped men-in-blue, stuffing cake into their mouths and laughing loudly at one another's jokes, the pink foil pompoms atop their gold hats shimmering with their laughter. Country music had been turned up so loud from behind the front desk that the bass shuttered in her chest.
Her gaze ran over the chaos in bewilderment until it found a familiar figure.
Nappa was slouching in a chair far too small for him in the front row of the lobby seats, hands behind his head, smirking.
The cops were pushing each other playfully and ragging on each other loudly like school boys, laughing heartily with mashed up cake still in their mouths, while a few civilian stragglers watched the chaos meekly from the back row.
Raditz leaned against the front desk smugly, observing her reaction, his long hair curling over his shoulder, stately.
She made her way slowly to him, halting and jerking back to avoid the a group of rowdy, gesticulating cops.
It was like reliving her worst fraternity party all over again.
"What in the hell?" The country music drowned out her muttering.
"Well, I guess there's one good thing to come of all this hullabaloo," Raditz mused.
She looked at him doubtfully, pulling up beside him.
"Vegeta is a lucky, lucky man." Raditz looked at her askant, mouth curling devilishly.
"What the hell is going on?" She hissed.
Raditz cleared his throat dramatically. "It just so happens that the West City Police Department loathes Vegeta Senior. Vegeta's old man was behind some shady racketeering stuff and framed the department for it, oh, about a decade ago. Since then, they've been looking for someway," his voice dipped into sinisterly cheerful tones, "anyway to get back at him. And they just found it." Raditz raised his mug to Nappa, who raised his back in turn.
Bulma looked around in bewilderment.
"Raditz, what is going—"
A wave of cops spilled out from behind the back desk, blowing kazoos and bursting into laughter. She cringed sharply.
And that's when she saw Vegeta, striding forward from behind them, looking impossibly dapper in his pale yellow sweatshirt, hands in his pockets and smirking. He stopped to shake a few hands, fiendish smile increasing in intensity as they all wished him luck.
Raditz glanced down at the top of Bulma's curly blue head. She stood watching the whole thing with almost comic befuddlement.
The stout, grizzled police chief shook Vegeta's hand, smiling broadly, and the two shared a joke and a laugh, shaking hands once more before Vegeta turned to leave.
As if he felt her there, heart like a compass needle, their eyes met.
The impish joy lighting Vegeta's face spilled, disappearing.
His pace didn't slow as he walked past her and rumbled, "I want to see you back at my place."
And then Vegeta strode out of the station, shoulders broad, butt looking impossibly round and firm in his jeans.
Bulma's head whipped around to face Raditz.
She was about.
To lose.
Her cool.
"What in the hell is going on?" It came out as a squeak between her clenched teeth.
"I don't know if I should be the one to explain that, hun." He looked at her without much mercy.
"You're right," she growled. "I deserve to hear it from the source."
Raditz gave a few cops a casual wave before sitting his "West City PD" mug on the counter and pulling from the desk. Nappa, too, was standing up.
Bulma crossed her arms over her chest and looking upwards into Raditz' long, pointed face with a searing intensity that rivaled Vegeta's. "Now why did you want me to pick you up, if Vegeta isn't in any kind of trouble? Mayhem? Sure, sure," she nodded to herself wildly. "But trouble? Evidently not."
"Because," Raditz explained, taking her elbow and leading her out the door, "we don't have a ride home. We took the bus here once we realized we'd been riding on a flat all night."
"Hot blonde at the bar knifed our tires," Nappa rumbled behind him.
"Yeah," Raditz issued. His balls should have been scampering up inside him protectively as her eyes narrowed, head snapping to the side with just enough attitude that he'd be lucky if they found enough of him to give him a proper burial. But stupidly, he persisted. "It's Saturday night and it's dollar cover charge at Brassiere's," he whined. "We gotta be there."
Raditz looked at her expectantly.
Nappa stared at her vacantly.
Bulma turned and sank her fist into Raditz' stomach.
She might not have the kind of raw strength Vegeta or Nappa did, but Bulma lifted heavy things. A lot. For a living.
"Now get in my bus," she snarled. "I'm dropping you off at your place, you insufferable dicksmears, and then I'm going to Vegeta's to get some answers. And then," she concluded with a snarl, "I'm getting an ice cream cone to make up for this unbelievable day!"
Bulma knocked lightly on the door. When there was no immediate answer, she put her ear to the front door tentatively, the wood cool against her cheek. Catching some muffled noises from inside, she grasped the knob and turned. The door opened.
She stepped into the quiet, cool entryway, her sneakers padding against stone tile.
Veering out of the entryway led one to either the kitchen or the living room, where there was no evidence that anyone did much "living." Though there were leather sofas and a modern glass coffee table (though Bulma was suspicious it was more for dressing than it was function), the room was bare. Down the hall, past a guest room and a spare room which held Vegeta's gym equipment, lay his own bedroom, slate gray, cool, and furnished sparely but poshly. It was silent down that way.
There was some rattling around in the kitchen, and her head turned toward the corner of the living room where the gray marble and stainless steel of Vegeta's kitchen glinted past an arched doorway.
She found him sitting at the kitchen table, paperwork sprawled across the table, scribbling notes erratically.
Bulma's lips pursed with worry, and she came up behind him, putting her hand on his hard, flat neck.
He looked up at her, and the confident reserve he held at the police department was as if it were never there. His hair was a bit wild, like he'd ran his hands through it too many times.
Bulma's brow furrowed.
"Have you eaten?"
Vegeta grunted and continued scribbling, gesturing carelessly.
She sighed and meandered to his fridge, peering in and assessing.
She pulled out a few thawed steaks and turned on the oven. The only sounds in the kitchen were the occasional turning of papers and the scratching of a pen on paper behind her, and then the sound of the expensive ceramic bakeware as she pulled it from the cabinets.
She lay the steaks in a shallow pan and rubbed them with pepper and lemon zest, then pulling out the bag of potatoes and searching for the knife, glancing every now and again at Vegeta's back. She peeled and quartered the potatoes in silence, sticking the steaks and potato wedges in the oven as she heated oil in a pan on the flat stovetop. The digital clock on the stove was unexpressive as it turned 11:24 p.m., and she threw the pound of whole green beans into the shimmering oil.
A quarter of an hour later snuck up on her as she bent to pull the tender steaks and potatoes from the oven, shredded cheddar melting and crisping over their golden skins. She lay each steak carefully onto Vegeta's oversized navy plates, wondering at the man's distaste for color, scooping the potatoes and placing the green beans neatly beside them and making sure Vegeta got an extra large portion. The hour long strength training and conditioning he inflicted on his body each morning sure made him wonderful to look at, but it also meant he ate like a bear.
"Vegeta," she murmured, coming up behind him. She didn't dare move his stuff, knowing it would frazzle him, knowing he had an order and control to things. She didn't understand it, but, hey, different strokes for different folks. "It's time to eat."
Vegeta growled, but she didn't take it personally. He was looking at the mess of paper in front of him.
"May I?" She asked, gesturing to the paperwork.
He threw his hand in the air and slouched back, placing his hands behind his head and staring unseeing at the wall, sterile gray in the clean white light.
She swept the papers into a pile with her palms and stacked them, placing them out of harm's way onto a small table in the corner, before sliding the plate in front of him and slipping into the chair beside him.
They cut their steaks in silence.
After popping a bite of steak into his mouth, Vegeta rose from the table and opened the fridge, pulling out a bottle of merlot, setting a wine glass in front of her quietly and pouring the deep red vintage into the bowl of their glasses before resuming his dinner.
They sat in silence for another minute before curiosity got the best of her. She looked up at him, fingers curling around the stem of the glass.
"So...are you going to tell me what's going on?"
Vegeta's face tightened, though he made no other sign that he heard her.
After a few more bites of steak, he looked up at her from under his lashes. Something boiled behind his eyes, thick, well-groomed brows knitting together.
"I quit the firm."
She cried out. "What?"
He looked back down at his plate, scowling.
"I thought you couldn't cook," he mentioned, glancing at her.
She couldn't even smile. She looked on at him with worry. "I can't," she maintained.
"This dinner is a far cry from a disaster," he argued, fixing her with his intense gaze.
"What a compliment." She couldn't help but smile.
"You're lying to me."
"And you're avoiding my question," she issued pointedly.
"Do I need to get in trouble more to get you to make food for me?" Finally, his tone was laced with his usual acerbic humor.
She sighed. "I'm not fibbing. I don't cook. Just not necessarily because I can't."
She moved her potatoes around on her plate and gazed down at it distantly. "Okay. Look. When I was eighteen, I had the stupid idea to go back to college under an assumed name and try my hand at being a normal college kid. You've probably figured that out by now." She glanced up to make sure he followed. "I had already graduated with my doctorates from Peabody and been offered tenure, but I turned it down because I, so, so stupidly, thought there was something I was missing out on by living my 'untraditional' life." She paused before popping a whole string bean into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "I didn't do well." She snorted to herself, stabbing at her food and glancing up at Vegeta with a small, winsome smile. "College culture made me feel out of place, and wrong, and alone. I was lucky to meet Chi Chi and her friends, who, recovering from head trauma or something, adopted me like a stray. But I was still unfulfilled. Something still wasn't right." She shook her head in disbelief at her distant self. "And when I met a cute boy who made it a point to talk to me at a bar and call me beautiful, wellllll, I fell hook, line, and sinker." She shrugged.
Vegeta continued eating, but she thought—hoped—his silence indicated he was listening.
"It was as dumb as any young relationship, probably. I dove in head first. I moved in with him only a few months afterward. He showered me with affection. I thought it was true love. It wasn't until it had escalated beyond the point of reparation, when he was tearing me down if I didn't have dinner done by a certain time each night, when 'you're getting fat' became his favorite mantra, and he needed me to pay his bills to make up for all these shortcomings I suddenly had, and how I needed to stay in on the weekends while he went out because he didn't like my girl friends, and didn't trust me, and cut me off from everyone I loved that I began to loathe the things I'd once loved to do. I thought it was just the way of things, that that kind of sacrifice was just growing up, being an adult, what being in a relationship was like. I was so blind to anything but being 'normal' that it took far too long for me to realize that it didn't make me happy and that it wasn't normal. And once I left…I guess I stopped cooking, among other things, as rebellion." She laughed sheepishly, quietly, and then let out a shaky breath. Rather than radiate sadness, Bulma tried to retell it all with aplomb. As she gazed at her dinner plate, lost in thought, Vegeta allowed himself to observe her. "Chi Chi asked me to move in, and she cooks religiously every night, so I just got out of the habit…."
She sighed through her nose and popped a potato wedge into her mouth, chewing consideringly.
His plate had already been licked clean, and he sat back solidly.
"When I was eighteen," Vegeta began, and Bulma glanced up at him with bright curiosity, "I ran away and joined the Navy. I was willing to sacrifice anything to get away from my father. Hometown, girlfriend, athletic scholarship." The air between them chilled upon the reference to his father. "I did well. The black and white military lifestyle suited me. I spent all my spare time getting my degree in law and went on to become an officer and practice law as one." His voice dipped into its lower registers with new venom. "It wasn't until I ran into Bardock at a bar one weekend night and he offered me a job at his firm that the spell was broken. I walked in my first day and found my father behind my boss's desk and realized I couldn't get away from him even if I tried. We are star-crossed," he snarled. He looked at her unflinching. "I've spent years being his bulldog," he snapped, "believing that I was making a name for myself independent of him, even if I was part of his firm, convinced that I could get back at him best under his thumb and that there was no question that I would be made senior partner as soon as the old coot retired."
"And that's what Raditz and Nappa came to talk to you about this morning," she breathed.
"Vejita Sr. has retired, abruptly." His hand furled into a fist. "He named Son Goku as his replacement."
Vegeta watched her heatedly from under his eyelashes.
Bulma's thoughts turned to Chi Chi. "Oh no."
"I confronted my father, and announced that I was quitting. I may or may not have punched him in his foolish fucking face," he ground out before finishing his wine in one gulp. "The teenaged me was willing to go much farther, but if there's anything I care about in life, it's to be a better man than him. Even if it means I have to set the world on fire to take his place and prove it."
Bulma grabbed Vegeta's hand and turned it over. His knuckles were swollen.
"Oh no," she said again, helplessly.
Vegeta leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head. "My father tried to call me in on an assault charge." For the first time since she'd gotten there, Vegeta smiled, albeit dangerously. "Unfortunately for him, he has a history with the police department. They called me in to discuss the charges. And I did what I do best." He stared at her with mischief leaping in his eyes. "I told them I was starting my own firm, and I'd be happy to represent them and rectify the penalty tax my father imposed on them as a legislator ten years ago for trying to speak out against his legislative practices. And what do you know? They let me go." His grin was toothy.
"Holy shit," she exclaimed. She shook her head, her curls bouncing. "Vegeta, are you okay?" She asked outright. "So much has happened today…."
He growled, just as her phone buzzed in her pocket. He took advantage of it and stood abruptly, taking his plate to the sink. Sensing he needed a moment, she went ahead and checked her messages.
It was Chi Chi.
Okay, headed over to Goku's now...Wish me luck.
Bulma's face went slack. Chi Chi had made her promise she'd talk to Vegeta about their relationship tonight, but it was really not a good time. Surely Cheech would understand?
Good luck, sister. It will go fine.
She stood, grabbing her own plate and moving to the sink, washing the dishes without thought. Vegeta picked off the remnants of green beans before sitting the pan beside her, which she washed automatically. After drying off her hands and putting the dishes away, Bulma moved to wipe down the kitchen table. Vegeta thought he heard her mutter something about an ice cream cone. And then she dried her hands, turned out the kitchen light on Vegeta's paperwork and their memories, and led Vegeta into the bedroom quietly.
Chi Chi turned the key in the doorknob and entered Goku's small apartment. "Yoohoo?" She called, shutting the door behind her.
She made her way through the apartment, searching for him, and found him watching a movie in bed, hand scratching his head thoughtlessly. His eyes rose to meet hers and he smiled, though painfully.
She knew a bad day when she saw it. "What's wrong?" She set her purse down and made her way to his bed, settling in beside him.
He frowned.
"I've got good news." He declared doubtfully. Count on Goku to approach everything with determination, even if it was Real Life, which confused him endlessly.
Her eyes widened. "What, what's your good news?"
He stared at the television, his eyes black in the dark.
"Cheech...I've been made senior partner."
Her mouth fell open.
Without warning, she burst into tears.
"Woah! Woah!" Goku's arms snaked around her, pulling her into his chest. "Cheech, what's wrong?"
She couldn't talk through the stupid sobs tearing at her. She balled her fist with embarrassment and anger, pulling away from him and straightening, rubbing at her face.
"Oh, Goku, that's wonderful news," she choked out.
Goku was looking at her like she'd grown three heads. "Is it?"
"Goku," she began, but couldn't finish. She reached out for his hand, and he took it.
He let her gather her wits uncertainly.
"Cheech, what's wrong? Tell me."
"GokuI'mpregnant," she choked.
Goku blinked.
Slowly, he pulled her to his chest, gripping her tight.
"Goku, I can't breathe."
"Now that's much better news than mine," he said genuinely.
"Is it?" It was her turn to question him. They stared at each other uncertainly, for the first time in a long time feeling a bit like strangers.
"Cheech, I don't want to be made senior partner. I get through a work day like any 9 to 5 and thank Kami when it's over," he admitted, with rare feeling. "I don't like this stuff. I'd much rather be playing baseball, or watching you cook dinner...and eating that dinner." He let her go gently, placing his hand awkwardly on her lower belly. "But if you're pregnant, I'll stay at the firm. I'll do anything for you, for you...you both. You're really pregnant?"
She looked up into his wondering face, and nodded.
"I'm about fourteen weeks along," she explained. "That's why I've been so sick."
"Barfing is a symptom of pregnancy?" Goku asked incredulously.
Chi Chi looked at him in bewilderment. "Yes, Goku," she said impatiently. "It is."
"Well, I guess I need to be strong, and accept the promotion...especially now that Vegeta has quit."
"What?" It came out of Chi Chi's mouth with unladylike volume.
Goku sighed, scooting down and putting his head against her belly, rubbing her there and listening. She began to cry again, quietly, but this time it was with the weightlessness of relief.
"Vejita Sr. has retired and he and my dad said I'm to replace him," Goku continued, his voice rumbling against her belly with a trace amount of bitterness. Chi Chi ran her fingers through his thick hair, surprised at his tone. "They told me this after work yesterday. I got a call from Vegeta—Junior—this afternoon threatening to put me six feet underground me if he sees me." His voice was heavy with sorrow, and she ran her fingers through his hair. "I got a text from my dad shortly after telling me to be in early Monday since I'm going to have to take over both of their workloads. So I've lost a friend and acquired three times the amount of work."
"That jerk!" Chi Chi exclaimed. "Oh, Goku. This is terrible." Tears started leaking from her eyes again. "I don't want you to be senior partner," she issued waterily, choking back tears. "Is that terrible of me?" She squeaked.
"No." Goku laughed. "No, it's not! I don't want to be, either. That job belonged to Vegeta. He's made for these high stress, ambitious positions. I'm cut from another cloth." He shrugged, shoulders wide in his tee shirt. "I don't know why they put me into this position. I don't know what to do."
"Goku," Chi Chi breathed, looking up at him slowly. They stared at one another in the dim light of the tv. "Maybe you should quit."
Goku's eyes widened.
"I won't," he protested. "I have to support us now, and, and, I made an agreement with my father—"
"—who isn't being very considerate of you by putting you into this position!" She hated to comment on his father's behavior when it was already well-established she didn't like the man, but she was defensive of Goku. It filled her up with a strange, reckless indignity for him.
"Goku, you don't need to support me," she declared. "I make enough to take care of both of us...all of us," she amended.
She looked at him, waiting, assessing his reaction in the dark.
Well, she had thrown in her chips. The moment had come.
But instead of making his own declaration of love, Goku looked down at her stomach, soft but still slender and storing something innocuously inside of it that was going to change their lives. That already had.
He pulled Chi Chi down next to him, curling around her as they watched tv, her fingers moving softly through his hair.
She waited, and waited, and she wondered, with renewed anguish, if he hadn't proposed now that she was knocked up, if he would ever.